


Pies and Prejudice

by AnnaofAza



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Angst, Brief Pining, Fluff, Harry Hart Lives, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstandings, Panic Attack, Post-Movie(s), Recovery, Seizure, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 03:42:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5812453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first thing Eggsy notices when he moves into Harry's house for the second time is that the neighbors hate him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pies and Prejudice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Goober](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goober/gifts).



> To Goober: thanks for your prompts! I decided to sort of combine two of them (Eggsy taking care of Harry and what they do on the anniversary of V-Day), so I hope you like the fic!

The first thing Eggsy notices when he moves into Harry's house for the second time is that the neighbors hate him.  
  
It's not like they glare or throw rotten food at the windows, but there's a definite tension. Most of them are away every day, and when Eggsy and Harry get home late, he sees people peeking through their blinds with pinched faces. On Saturday and Sunday mornings, when Eggsy walks JB or picks up his mail, he sees neighbors staring, like trying to figure out one of those _Which One Does Not Belong with the Others?_ puzzles.  
  
"You gave this neighborhood quite the gossip when you moved in, then moved out, then came back," Harry notes. Eggsy can sort of see the point—a young man with an East London accent wearing the former occupant's clothes, a young man with a hurried mess of suitcases climbing into a cab, then a young man strolling down the street in his trackies and trainers with the resident mysterious older gentleman, now with a new scar above his eye.

“I guess I’m the most exciting thing to happen in Stanhope Mews, eh?”

Harry smirks. “Oh, Eggsy, thanks to you, I don’t think my reputation as brooding, lonesome old man will hold much longer.”

Eggsy can see that: the polite, if friendly distance between Harry and his neighbors is something he notices every day. In fact, Harry’s away so often that people don’t even bother to ask him if he can watch their houses while they’re on holiday, or even do more than nod his way—which sort of pisses Eggsy off—but Harry tells him that he prefers it that way.

“Fewer questions,” he says. “This residence was chosen for a reason, love. People here prefer to leave everyone to their own devices.”

In a way, Eggsy understands. Nice neighbors would be nosy neighbors, and Harry didn't need his whole neighborhood wondering at his odd hours or torn suits or bruised face, coming over laden with casseroles and pies, and trying to peek into his house. The dog in the loo alone would have many fleeing the vicinity, if the display of antique guns in the dining room didn't.

Still, he sort of _missed_ having neighbors—not the shitty ones who fought during all hours or threw drunken raves with excess amounts of weed—but the ones who popped in for a spell and offered to take you down to the pub to watch the Millwall game.

The only one of Harry's neighbors who liked him was the nice, very elderly lady who used to be in the Marines and dropped sweets into everyone’s mailboxes after V-Day. Mrs. Braddock was the only one who would chat with him the first time he moved into Harry’s house, and continued to do so, clucking at the neighbors who at frowned at Eggsy suspiciously whenever he passed by their houses while walking JB.  
  
"Don't hurt Mister Hart, young man," she once said, after delivering a freshly-baked lemon tart on the day Harry came home. "I feel he's been through a lot."

* * *

  _When Merlin kicked him out of HQ on a forced leave, Eggsy crawled back to Harry’s house and cracked open a whiskey bottle that had a generous layer of dust. Halfway through the bottle, he answered a text from his mum, who asked if he would come over for supper tomorrow to celebrate his “vacation,” with the approximate guess at the letters on the keyboard, then spent the most of the night finishing the bottle._

_“Harry would be proud,” Merlin had said after V-Day, and Eggsy could only scoff with a twinge in his heart as he tipped the remaining dregs down his throat, reaching for another in the alcohol globe. Eggsy had gaped when Harry had cracked open what looked like an enormous, wooden world globe in the dining room and revealed a glass decanter and several goblets. Harry simply rolled his eyes and poured celebratory drink as a reward for passing the train test, but Eggsy couldn’t drink it because he was trying to contain his laughter._

_“This is a replica of a sixteenth-century Italian globe bar,” Harry had protested indignantly. “I’ve had it for years, and it is a perfectly fine way to store drinks.”_

_That hadn’t stopped Eggsy from exclaiming, “It looks like you haven’t redecorated since the early eighties! Was this the height of posh back then?”_

_“Just drink what I so generously poured for you,” Harry had sighed, pouring one for himself. “A toast to you, Eggsy, and to your future success.” He’d smiled so fondly at him that Eggsy quaffed his drink in one go, bubbles dancing on his tongue like his own skipping heartbeat._

_Eggsy now closed his eyes, and took the biggest sip that he could._

_He didn’t remember much after that. The next morning, he’d woken up with a thudding headache, a wet seat reeking of ancient alcohol, and his fingers cradling the mostly-empty bottle. Eggsy swore, then replaced the bottle in the globe with a sharp clink, and was on his way to the bathroom to maybe throw up in the loo when he heard a knock on the door._

_Eggsy swore again, loudly. It was probably Roxy, coming to check on him. He thought about hiding and pretending he wasn’t there, but the knocking continued. Eggsy sighed, grabbing the first thing on the coat rack to cover his alcohol-soaked pants. It was one of Harry’s red robes, and the scent of cologne that Eggsy could only smell if he stood close to Harry brushed his nose. Shaking his head, Eggsy told himself, ‘No,’ and cracked open the door._

_“Ah, Mister Hart,” an elderly woman said pleasantly. “I wanted to check up on—who are you, dear?”_

_Eggsy stared blearily at her. Her white hair was pulled back into a messy knot, and her blue eyes were magnified by the thickest pair of glasses he’d ever seen in his life. She carried a wrapped package under her arm, blinking curiously at him, from his messy hair to the robe wrapped around his body._

_“I—I’m Harry’s...” Eggsy paused, mind faltering, then finally said somewhat lamely, “friend.”_

_“Are you watching his house? I haven’t seen Mister Hart in more than a month.”_

_“Yes. No. I...” Eggsy fought past his headache, his trembling hands now stuffed in the pockets of Harry’s robe. “He...he didn’t make it. He was—” Unbidden tears came to his eyes, and he blinked furiously, trying not to cry. “He left the house to me in his...will.”_

_She put a hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry. Mister Hart was always a gentleman, very kind, and—I’m sorry for your loss.”_

_Eggsy shook his head. “Don’t,” he muttered, throat closing, “I…”_

_“I lost my husband in V-Day—the second one,” she specifies, and before Eggsy can offer his own condolences, she continues: “I knew how it feels, young man.” She patted his arm and handed him the package. “Come over for tea one day in the house just across the street from yours, if you like. I make a wonderful baklava.”_

_Before she could leave, Eggsy croaked, “Wait. Your name? I didn’t—”_

_“Mrs. Braddock. Yours?”_

_Eggsy replied with his own name, waved goodbye, and unwrapped the package of rhubarb pie with chocolate-covered biscuits._

* * *

"Going to bed?"  
  
"This migraine just isn’t going away." Harry rubs his temples. Ever since Kentucky, Harry's had severe headaches and sometimes even had to lie down for a good part of the day if the pain was so fierce. Eggsy knows Harry loathed being seen as weak, as old, as beaten by something he considered minor.  
  
Eggsy leans over and presses a  kiss to the afflicted area. "JB hasn't been out for a walk in more than a week. Are you okay if I just take him around the block for a bit?"  
  
"Of course. I'm going to take a shower and get ready for bed."  
  
"Don't wait up."  
  
"I will,” Harry says, and the simple determination in his voice makes Eggsy melt. He kisses Harry again, this time on the lips, then makes himself pull away before it develops into a full-on snogging session. Eggsy has a feeling that both of them won’t necessarily mind, but he really has to take his dog outside--JB’s been prancing nervously by the door for a good five minutes--and Harry needs some rest.

Calling out a “be right back,” Eggsy clips the leash to JB’s collar, opens the door, locks it from the inside, and steps out into the chilly night. He’s glad that he has his jacket on, bulky and warm, and tugs the hood over his head. JB trots along, sniffing at every tree, and occasionally barking at a passing cat. But he _refuses_ to go to the bathroom, and even though JB is too well-trained to dribble on the carpet, Eggsy doesn’t want him to break the track record. So he goes around the block again, shivering a little and impatiently wanting to go back to the warm house and massage Harry’s temples like his physical therapist showed him.

Finally, JB does his business, then Eggsy tidies it up with a plastic bag he brought along and tosses it in a nearby bin, relieved. “Took your time, JB,” he lightly scolds, but the pug only shuffles along with a snort.

Eggsy jogs the rest of the way, and telling JB to sit, fumbles for his keys in his pockets, except...  
  
He forgot his bloody keys.

Not wanting to wake Harry or make his headache worse, Eggsy refrains from knocking, and instead, using the porch light and a nifty wire from his jacket pocket, begins to pick the lock. He’s concentrating so hard that he doesn’t notice the quiet padding of footsteps, but jolts when someone wraps a hand around his wrist and wrenches it back, then another hand grips hard on his shoulder.

“You little thief! Trying to break into an old man’s house, aren’t ya?”

“I _live_ here!” Eggsy snaps, trying to keep his voice down and to stop JB from doing more than fierce growling. “JB, stay!” He cranks his neck to see a man, maybe a bit younger than Harry, with graying hair and gold-rimmed glasses—someone he doesn't recognize. “I live here with Harry, Harry Hart, and honestly, would I bring my dog with me if I’m tryin’ to rob a house?”

The man shakes him, not as hard as Dean or some goons trying to blow up the world would, but hard enough to make Eggsy briefly wince. “You expect me to believe _you_ would live with Mister Hart?” He eyes Eggsy, from his baggy jeans to his too-large jacket. “Who are you, then? Don’t lie, or I’ll call the police right now—”

In the corner of his eye, Eggsy notices lights turning on. People are even beginning to come out of their houses, and he sees a blonde head two houses away—one of the Tylers—and the whole Miller family stream outside. Someone—he doesn't know who—shouts in alarm.

"What is going _on_ here?"  
  
Eggsy nearly slumps in relief when the front door bursts open, and a furious-looking Harry Hart suddenly storms onto the porch. Eggsy feels a sharp tug on the leash, a distracted JB trying his best to reach the other man, and the man loosening his grip enough for Eggsy to pull away.  
  
"Mister Hart, I caught this—this rapscallion trying to break into your house—"  
  
"Enough, Richard. Eggsy is my—" Harry pauses, then says, with firm finality: “He lives with me. And I suggest you let him go, because I will take...appropriate measures." Even in his ratty red robe and loose curls freed from expensive pomade, Harry still looks like he can throw Richard all the way to Scotland and not break a sweat.  
  
The man gulps visibly, and slowly lets go of Eggsy. Eggsy nods, steps away, and Harry winds a protective arm around his shoulder.  
  
"Are you hurt?"  
  
"I'm fine, Harry."  
  
Harry gently prods at Eggsy's shoulder, then slides up his jacket arm to examine his wrist. There's a faint purplish bruise, visible in the warm glow of the porch light, and Harry tenses dangerously.  
  
"Harry," Eggsy says gently, "please let this go; I just want to sleep for now." He would like to deck Richard, but is still in trouble for his display at the Black Prince with Dean and the others. Theoretically, the man could be shot with an amnesia dart, but the neighbors outside, some with phones in their hands, would wonder at Richard dropping face-first onto the porch. Besides, it would be more trouble than it’s worth.  
  
"You will be lucky if I don't press charges," Harry seethes. Eggsy pulls at him, a little, trying to get him into the house before a row could start. He sees Mrs. Miller with a hand over her mouth next door, and the Tylers pointing in their direction.  
  
"Come on, Harry, let's go. Come on."  
  
Harry looks for a minute as if he wants to resist, but with one look at Eggsy's pleading face, he relents. "Very well."  
  
Richard glares. "Keep a leash on your—your little—"  
  
"Have a good evening," Harry says, before Richard can finish his sentence, and slams the door in his face.

Eggsy’s still staring at the door when Harry pivots.  
  
"Harry—"  
  
"He can't treat you like that."  
  
"Harry, it did seem suspicious—I should have knocked—"  
  
"But I can't—" Harry looks on the verge of pacing or chucking something out the window. His words are slower, less pronounced than a year ago, but there's nothing missing from the contained fury that Eggsy remembers in each syllable. "Eggsy, this place is where you should be safe, and for such a vile—"  
  
"He's not like, an assassin or—"  
  
"I wanted to give you a home, Eggsy," Harry suddenly sighs, tiredly. "You're not safe out there, or in HQ, or in your old neighborhood, and I thought—I thought—it's a quiet place, and I'm here—and I wasn't—" Harry sighs again. "I wasn't there to protect you."  
  
"You're still on that?"  
  
"I should have checked up on you during your seventeen—no, eighteen—years. I should have—"  
  
"Mum refused your help. And you were in a coma for almost a good year." Eggsy places a hand on Harry's shoulder. "I can take care of myself, Harry. I've made it this far."  
  
"I just—" Harry cuts himself off, voice trembling with the next sentence. "I don't know what I'd do if you ever—"  
  
"You'd carry on. Just as always."

It seems hypocritical to say, considering the state he’d been when he thought the bullet killed Harry in Kentucky, but Eggsy knows that Harry is strong. He's talked to Eggsy about some of his missions, heavy weight in each word, and there's the fact he survived the year following the church. He’ll survive Eggsy, too.

Harry doesn't say more—he just leads Eggsy upstairs and holds him tight.

* * *

_The first time they said their love for one another, it came from an argument._

_Eggsy was relieved that Harry had made it this far—Harry had been able to move his right fingers in the Kentucky hospital, but had to have surgery in American HQ, where they cut out part of his skull so his brain wouldn’t swell too dangerously. Then he was put in a medically-induced coma, and when he could finally return home, he was limited to months of bed rest and physical therapy. Harry was slowly gaining feeling in his left side, though no one was one-hundred percent sure that he’d be the same in the future. But Harry was alive—that was what mattered._

_Harry disliked being still. Eggsy would come into his hospital room, where Harry would try to cajole him to lift him up a little and walk him around HQ. Even though Harry protested that it didn’t count, Merlin allowed for him to go outside in a wheelchair and supervised._

_But Eggsy could see that Harry was frustrated. He tried not to draw attention when Harry tried to reach for him with his left hand or form syllables without stuttering or try not to shake while bracing against horizontal poles to be able to walk._

_It was after one of these sessions that Harry shouted at the doctor, who patiently began to speak, then it all went to shit in ten seconds. Eggsy then told off Harry for yelling at the poor woman, and Harry snapped back that he didn't know how he felt and how much he hated himself and how he couldn't be an agent and how—_

_“Sometimes I can’t...bloody..._ speak. _” Harry finally scoffed. “You thought of me as articulate and quick and put-together—I heard you in my coma, when you came to visit me—and look at me.” He shook his head. “Bad enough that you love an old man, but you love a crippled one, too.”_

 _Something in Eggsy went very cold, then sharp. “You...you_ know?”

 _“Of course I know! The way you speak to me, the way you always visit me, and Christ, the way you_ look _at me, Eggsy!” Harry’s voice was hoarse, as if his throat was raw. “Damn it, it's obvious.”_

 _“Right,” Eggsy said, heart twisting. It was like that horrible day, after he failed his test and stood in Harry’s bathroom and said terrible things. He could still remember the echo of_ Can't you see that everything I've done has been about trying to repay him? _“Right. I'm sorry. I get it. I'm just a stupid kid who fell in arse over tits, and thought you—never mind.” He turned to leave._

_“No,” Harry said, desperately. “Eggsy, don't say those things about yourself. I deserve your hate, but you don't—you never deserve mine. Me.”_

_“What do you mean I don't deserve you?” Eggsy asked slowly, refusing to think about maybe it meant more than what Harry was allowing himself to say._

_Harry took a deep breath. “I…” His voice wobbled. “You don't deserve someone like me. You're young and strong and full of potential, and you spend too much time fussing about over a broken man.”_

_“I fuss over you because I_ care. _What I don't care about is that you're old or you're injured. I care about you, Harry.” Eggsy was sure the other man knew it already, but said it anyway. Just to say it once. Just to let it out._

_“And you shouldn't.”_

_“I wouldn't be me if I didn't.”_

_“No,” Harry said, considering. “You wouldn't.”_

_“So I get to be the one to decide my feelings for you, and if you're_ worth it.” _Eggsy put finger quotes around the last two words, almost mockingly. “And I say you are. And I think...you shouldn't be afraid that I think that.”_

 _“I've been a fool.” Harry said. “I've been remiss in trying to dissuade you, and myself.” He reached out with his right hand—he still couldn't quite feel his left—and touched it to Eggsy’s. “I…” His lips worked, no sound, and Eggsy then realized the doctor was still there, pressed against the wall like she wanted to retreat, but couldn't. He had been too caught up with Harry was saying, what Harry was moving towards... “If you can forgive me, I want to say...no, I_ need _to say…” Harry stroked a thumb over Eggsy’s hand, slowly. “I love you, and it might have been better if I didn’t—”_

 _Eggsy breathed, “Shut_ up _, Harry,” and repeated the three words back._

* * *

Mrs. Braddock raps on the door, apologizes for Richard, and hands Eggsy a pie. “I’m sorry, dear—he’s been in Nepal since V-Day, and didn’t know you moved in.”

“It’s all right,” Eggsy says. “Do you want to come in?”

She hesitates. “I don’t want to impose…”

“Nonsense,” Harry’s voice says, and Eggsy turns to see him walk towards them from the kitchen. His slippered feet make quiet _pat-pat-pat_ sounds, and the walking stick from Kingsman HQ taps across the floor. He must be feeling off today, Eggsy deduces, and wonders if he and Harry should forgo their long evening walk around the park tonight. “Mrs. Braddock, how do you do?”

“Well enough, thank you.” Her eyes travel to Harry’s walking stick. “Yourself?”

Harry smiles, though it looks a bit strained. “Could be better, could be worse. Is that bacon and egg pie in Eggsy’s arms?”

“Indeed it is.”

“Then, I insist on you sitting down and having a slice with us.” He then turns to Eggsy. “Can you put the kettle on, love?”

Eggsy nods, carefully puts down the pie down onto the dining table, turns on the stove, and quickly gathers three plates and three sets of utensils. Harry and Mrs. Braddock take their seats, and Eggsy slides down in the seat next to Harry, who lightly tousles his hair.

“I must once again apologize for my son—”

Eggsy’s jaw drops. “He’s your _son_?”

Mrs. Braddock shrugs, as if to say _what can you do?_ “He’s good-hearted—that’s why he’s been away for so long; he’s been doing the Doctors Without Borders program.” Her voice lowers. “I don’t blame him. With the loss of...Jonathan back home and the sheer damage from that day, it’s a wonder he came back at all.”

Eggsy tries not to squirm at that. He’s been to Kingsman’s therapists, and knows that he can’t change the past—that he had to stop Gazelle before reaching Valentine—but he still can’t get it out of his mind that with every second Valentine’s hand was on his desk, the more and more innocent people killed each other. If he had been faster…

And if he had stopped Harry, if he’d pulled him back, done _something_ before Harry left for Kentucky, then maybe...

“I’m sorry,” Eggsy says, hoping it doesn’t sound like another platitude that’s been overused. “I…” Underneath the table, Harry squeezes his hand. “I’m sorry,” he can only repeat.

* * *

_“Harry,” Eggsy whispered, holding on to the limp hand with the fingers maneuvered around the call button, so it would be without easy reach when he woke up. The other man’s eyes were closed; Eggsy had seen them more closed than open since Kentucky. “Harry, please wake up.”_

_“He’s going to be out for a while, lad,” Merlin said, but not without kindness. “Go home—or go visit your family or Roxy—and I’ll call you when he wakes.”_

_“But it all went well?” Eggsy hated seeing Harry lying here, helpless with his skin pricked by needles and strung with tubes. “He’ll be fine?”_

_“He’ll be fine,” Merlin reassured him. “It’ll be a long road to recovery, but he’ll be fine. I promise you.”_

* * *

On the anniversary of Harry’s death, just before V-Day starts, both Harry and Eggsy decide to return Mrs. Braddock’s plate, cleaned thoroughly of flaky bits of crusts and egg, before heading over to the park. Eggsy has a picnic basket slung over his arm, along with a checkered tablecloth, containing freshly-made sandwiches with peppers, salt-and-vinegar crisps, strawberry scones, and apple cider. He wants to make this day something other than a memory of pain and fear and tragedy, especially since tomorrow will bring every agent down to HQ. No one knows if someone’s going to try a repeat “take over the world” plot on the V-Day anniversary, but everyone’s determined to make sure it doesn’t repeat.

Richard opens the door, and Harry hands over the plate with a faux-polite smile. Eggsy’s pleased to see Richard flinch ever so slightly when their fingers touch.

The tinkle of plates and faint rhythm of drum beats direct Eggsy’s attention.  

“Is your mother entertaining today? It sounds like the whole neighborhood’s here,” Eggsy comments.

Richard’s eyes dart back. “Nothing special, really, just—”

“Richard, dear, have you seen your mother? I really wanted—oh.” Mrs. Miller stops and peers around him, raising her eyebrows at the sight of Eggsy and Harry on the doorstep. “Mister Hart, and...Eggsy,” she says, smile quite fixed on her face. “Come for Richard’s birthday?”

“Oh.” And Eggsy gets it: they weren’t invited. “No, we’ve got our own plans, actually.” He forces a polite smile on his face.

They’re about to make their escape when Mrs. Braddock wanders in, sees them, and coos, “Oh, you’re both here! Good, I didn’t think you’d make it! What’s the basket for?”

“Oh, we were actually just—”

“Just pop in for a bit, yeah? I’ve got some lemon cakes, and I know how much you like them, Eggsy. And Mister Hart, I have banoffee pie—”

“They said they had plans, Mother,” Richard interrupts, looking relieved.

“I might be tempted to try a slice of that pie, madam,” Harry suddenly says.

Eggsy turns, startled. _“Harry,”_ he hisses underneath his breath.

“Oh, good, come in. Let’s find a place to put your things down—oh, and thank you for returning the plate—and entertain yourselves in the yard with the neighborhood.”

Eggsy could do nothing but follow Harry in, noting the sour twist of Richard’s lips and refusing Mrs. Braddock’s offer to put the basket in the kitchen. They’d be in and out, hopefully, and the moment Harry gravitates to a table laden with food, Eggsy asks, in a low voice, “Are we really staying here?”

“Might as well. Mrs. Braddock makes excellent pastries, and did you see the look on Richard’s face when I stepped past him?”

Eggsy’s jaw nearly hits the floor. “You’re going to this shitty party out of spite?”

“Darling, I just wish to have my cake—pie—and eat it, too...in front of Richard, of course. We can leave soon, but in the meantime, you might as well stuff some of that custard tart into the basket, or perhaps a few of those raspberry cookies with the powdered sugar that Mrs. Tyler’s famous for. I have a weakness for those.”

And his mates thought dating an older man would cramp his style. Eggsy grins, kisses Harry on the cheek, and snatches at one of the cookies. Harry, between bites of pie, eggs him on, and by the time Harry’s practically licking the plate, Eggsy has a quarter of a bakery crammed into the picnic basket.

He notices some of the neighbors swiveling their necks and leaning towards each other, wine glasses covering their mouths. Eggsy briefly waves at one of the Miller kids, but stops when their father gives him a sort of assessing look that reminds him of his headmaster in secondary before he assigned Eggsy a detention.

“How was your cake? Worth pissing off Richard?”

“It was very good, though I think she might have changed the recipe; it tastes a bit different than I remember.” Harry then presses a kiss to Eggsy’s forehead and murmurs, “I’m going to put my plate in the kitchen and wish Richard a happy birthday. Want to come?”  

“I’ll stay here, love. Maybe I’ll light-finger one of the chocolate croissants.”

He watches Harry leave, shifts his feet, and wishes they could go already. Eggsy’s relieved when he hears a plate rattle, then Richard’s strained _thank you for coming_ , and is about to sweep Harry away when Mrs. Tyler pulls him aside, and to Eggsy’s surprise, he sees her smile at Harry pleasantly. They chat for awhile, and when they wrap up the conversation, Harry’s mobbed by nearly every person at the party. They ask how he is, how he’s coping with his injuries, if they could do anything.

 _They like Harry,_ Eggsy realizes, seeing Mr. Miller shake Harry’s hand. _They might not drop by, but they care about him well enough._

“Mum said you’re a coal digger.”

Eggsy startles, and sees the boy he’d been waving to earlier. “Coal? Where’d she get that idea?”

He shrugs. “I dunno,” he admits sweetly. “But is it dangerous? Dad said that he was worried for Mister Hart, and Mum mentioned something about banks and paper and such.”

It takes awhile for it to click.

_A golddigger._

Did they think he’s with Harry for his money? That Eggsy would swindle Harry out of his house and goods and skip town? That Eggsy was just someone young and pretty for Harry to look at, but somehow the shiny, red apple in the garden?

Don’t they know that he loves Harry with all his heart? That he doesn’t care if Harry sometimes doesn’t want to get out of bed all day because of his aching body, that Harry takes so many pills that he has to lay them out on the counter so he doesn’t forget or take them twice, or that Harry never fails to apologize for his lagging tongue or trembling hands, and Eggsy wishes he wouldn’t?   

“No, it isn’t dangerous. I love...Mister Hart, and I’m no...coal digger.”  

He then hears Mrs. Braddock say, clearly pleased, “Richard, I didn’t honestly think you’d invite the Harts.”

Ignoring Richard’s sputtering excuses, Eggsy strolls up to Harry, who’s talking to the lady who has the cat that JB likes to try to chase, and lightly touches his arm. “Ready to go?”

Harry smiles down at him, before demurring, “If you excuse me, Mrs. Abbot, Eggsy and I have an engagement.”

“Ah, yes.” She glances at Eggsy, then at the basket still dangling from his arm. “Picnic?”

“Eggsy’s idea.” Harry bends over to kiss him, but pauses, his right arm jerking suddenly, as if someone’s tapped the joint with a doctor’s rubber hammer. “I…”

“Harry?” Eggsy asks, worriedly. “Are you all right, love?”

Harry grimaces. “Just a headache, and I’m feeling a bit…”

“Harry? Do you want to have a liedown? Harry?”

Harry doesn’t seem to hear him, and Eggsy tries to fight off the panic rising in his throat when he sees Mrs. Abbot anxiously observing him. “Mister Hart,” she asks, in a shakily-calm voice, “do you feel numbness in your side, arms, legs?”

When Harry doesn’t answer, Mrs. Abbot pulls out her phone and begins dialing 999. Everyone’s crowding around, faces worried, but Eggsy keeps his eyes on Harry, fingers reaching for him. But he hesitates; Eggsy doesn’t know if he _should_ touch him. “What’s goin’ on? Harry?”

Harry blinks, rapidly, and Eggsy notices, with dawning horror, that his right arm hasn’t stopped twitching. His forehead is already shiny with sweat, and his entire body tenses, as if he’s preparing for a fight. “Eggsy, call Merlin,” he manages to say, syllables slurred, before slumping over.

“Harry? _Harry!_ ” Eggsy cries.

Arms catch him before he falls to the ground, and with the weight sinking into his upper limbs and the wool underneath his fingertips, Eggsy realizes that he has Harry, body jerking in spasms, eyes wide open and blinking unnaturally fast.

He’s wished he was there when Harry got shot, wished he had been there—but now, at the sight of Harry’s body convulsing in his arms, he can only stand there for one horrible second. _Do something,_ he mentally screams, _do something._

“Eggsy, turn him on his side, onto the floor!” Richard snaps, rushing forward. “Everyone else, give Mister Hart some space, and Eggsy, don’t restrain him, come on, that’s a lad—”

Eggsy obeys, feeling strangely detached from his body. It’s like Merlin giving orders in his ear while he disarms a bomb, the feeling strangely calm with nothing to anchor him but his beating heart and trembling fingers. _You can’t panic, you can’t panic, Harry needs you._

He fumbles for the phone tucked in one of his jean pockets, dials a number, and presses it against his ear as Richard drops to his knees to unknot the tie around Harry’s throat, glancing at his wristwatch.

“Merlin,” Eggsy almost sobs into his speaker, “Merlin, Harry’s having—he’s having some sort of seizure—I don’t—"

“All right, lad, we’re on our way. Keep calm—take off his tie, unbutton his collar, but _don’t_ restrict his movements.”

“Okay,” Eggsy gasps frantically. Without anything to do with his hands, his heart skips too fast, making his whole body tremble. Richard’s talking to him—Eggsy can see his lips moving—but no sound seems to be processing to his eardrums. “Merlin, please hurry, I can’t—”

“Eggsy, we’re on our way…”

“Eggsy, what do you need?” Richard asks, and Eggsy looks up, forcing his gaze away from Harry’s body, a puddle of drool beginning to form on the carpet. “Eggsy, tell me what you need now.”

“I need to help him—I need to help Harry—”

“There’s nothing you can do right now, except to stay calm. Okay? Help is on the way. Do you want to leave the room?”

Eggsy frantically shakes his head. “No,” he pleads, “no, I have to—”

“Okay. Okay.” Richard looks at his watch again, then quickly flickers back to Harry, whose movements are beginning to slow. “Okay. Eggsy, breathe with me. Breathe in, slowly, through your nose. Feel your ribs expanding. Now, exhale, slowly, through your mouth. And count: one.”

Shakily, Eggsy does what he says, following Richard’s directions. He’s aware of the neighbors at the edge of the room, watching him and Richard and Harry, and tries to block the murmuring out. Harry’s eyes are clearer, now, and Eggsy looks back at him, trying to communicate what he cannot touch or say, that he’s here, that he’ll always be here, that he’ll never leave him.

He and Richard count to the number ten, start over, and by the time they reach number five, Merlin’s pulled up to the curb.

* * *

_Later, after a good month of tip-toeing and questioning, Eggsy stripped himself and made love to Harry in his ridiculously-posh four poster bed._

_It wasn’t planned—some of the best things aren’t—but he and Harry moved together as if they’d sat at the dining table and worked out each movement and how to respond. Harry lay back, hands moving to rest on Eggsy’s shoulders, and kissed Eggsy back, coaxing his mouth open. For a long time, Eggsy straddled Harry, propped up with puffy pillows, and they just kissed. Their hands rarely roved, their teeth rarely scraped or nipped at lips, and their mouths never uttered sounds beyond soft moans._

_Harry was naked, too, but neither of them focused on that part just yet. When they finally broke away for air, Harry’s left hand—slowly, but without a tremble—caressed Eggsy’s cheek. Eggsy sat there, Harry’s thumb moving across his jawline, and held Harry’s other, unoccupied hand._

_“You’ve done this before, yes?”_

_Eggsy shook his head. “Not like this.”_

_Harry’s thumb didn’t stop in mid-stroke, but there was a distinct pause in the air before he inquired, “Not with the princess? I thought—”_

_“Not with someone I love.”_

_In response, Harry leaned in and kissed him again, squeezing the hand he still held._

_After this, they went slow and sweet and gentle, and although it wasn’t like what Eggsy initially fantasized, he thought of it as perfect. He treasured each moment of that night: each tender touch, each breathless kiss, each tense muscle, each soft sigh._

_Eggsy found that he liked the sensation of Harry’s fingers carding through his hair and the stickiness between their limp bodies, and he especially liked being nestled in Harry’s arms._

_“I love you,” Harry breathed against his skin, just before Eggsy drifted off. “I love you.”_

_Eggsy liked that, too._

* * *

“Do you want to talk?” Roxy asks, looking completely wiped-out from her mission in Bulgaria, but standing in the hallway of HQ Medical without her knees giving out. Eggsy’s grateful to her.

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Eggsy glances back, wishing he could hear what was going on through the door. “Harry came back on the ride over, but he’s...he’s not feeling well, Rox.”

That’s an understatement. Merlin’s been quizzing him on the last few hours, and Harry can only answer them vaguely and with several frustrated tries with his lips. Eggsy was allowed to see Harry once before the medical staff kicked him out to run tests, and Harry looked as if he’d been running for five days straight and just now collapsed into bed.

“My uncle had a seizure last year, and Harry’s doing much better than he was,” Roxy reassures him.

“You think it was from the bullet?” Eggsy wants to go back and kill Valentine again, perhaps not as quickly.

“I don’t know,” she admits. “Maybe. He wasn’t found until much later after the church, and who knows how long that thing sat in his head? The Americans did a good job, but...well, head injuries are tricky. They were the worst part for me  when I was in training.”

Eggsy stares. “Were you going to be a doctor? You never mentioned that once!”

Roxy shrugs. “Surgeon. But it was something my parents wanted—not what _I_ wanted. I thought I was being incredibly selfish when I quit after a year and joined the military, but it led me to Kingsman. You never know how it’s all going to turn out, right?”

“No,” Eggsy says, “but I’m tired of shit happening without permission. Merlin said Harry was going to be fine after all the surgeries, Rox. What if…”

“Eggsy?” Merlin opens the door. “You can come in now.”

Roxy pats his shoulder. “I’ll be out here,” she promises, and Eggsy nods in thanks.

He takes a deep breath and follows Merlin inside.

* * *

_“Mum just asked if we were getting married,” Eggsy said, one day at the breakfast table, after swallowing the last bit of the blueberry scones._

_Harry set down his newspaper, the corner almost dipping into his cup of tea. “What gave her that idea?”_

_“We have been living together for nearly a year, and I guess we seem pretty close.” Eggsy took a bite of his toast, before continuing, “She lectured me on being sure you’re the right one and if you respect me and not just using me for sex.”_

_“Oh, damn, she figured me out. I was hoping for a few more months before I told you—"_

_Eggsy flicked his crumbs at Harry, laughing. “You wanker. I thought we had something!”_

_“Yes. Sexual chemistry.”_

_“That’s it,” Eggsy declared, pointing a finger at the smirking older man. “You’re not getting any of Mrs. Braddock’s treacle tart.”_

_“And what would you say if I told you I already ate half of it while you were away on that infiltration assignment in Holland yesterday?”_

_Eggsy gasped dramatically, putting a hand to his heart. “Traitor!”_

_“Well, I had to console myself somehow.”_

_“Oh, so you_ did _miss me.”_

_Harry sighed, shaking his head and going back to his newspaper. “A gentleman does not fish for compliments.”_

_Eggsy wasn’t fooled. The soft fondness in Harry’s eyes was a dead giveaway, and looking at him that that ratty red robe and crooked glasses and wry smile, Eggsy felt something in his chest expand._

_“You are,” Eggsy blurted out. “I mean, you’re that. The right one.”_

_Harry’s lips twitched. “Thank you, Eggsy. I think the same way.”_

_Eggsy paused. “So,_ are _we getting married?” he asked, with a cheeky wink at the end of the sentence._

_Harry threw the newspaper at him._

* * *

When Eggsy gets back, with an exhausted Harry in the tow, he gets six versions of the shovel talk and too many desserts and casseroles from the neighbors. Richard had come by to see how Harry was doing, apologized to Eggsy, and offered to stop by whenever needed with one of his mother’s favorite desserts. Eggsy accepted the offer, while Harry stared at Richard long enough to make the other man practically flee for the door, then opened the door just ten minutes later to receive the entire Miller family, a large tin of steak and kidney pie, and several apologies.

“It’s not a good excuse for treating you the way we did,” Mrs. Miller admits, gesturing for her fidgeting children to sit still in the front room. “But we can see you’re quite...enamored with Mister Hart.”

“Well, as long as you think Eggsy isn’t going to laugh over my dead body and run out of Stanhope Mews with my will giving everything to him, that’s good enough for me,” Harry says, but Eggsy catches a faint tinge of sarcasm overlapping his words.

Mr. Miller winces. “Mrs. Braddock had been trying to discourage our...mistaken notions, but we thought it was the...er, delusions of an old woman.” He raises his hands when Harry and Eggsy glare at him. “Again, we’re sorry.”

“And congratulations on your marriage,” Mrs. Miller says, standing up to leave with an awkward little wave, and Eggsy can only stare after her and her family as they walk out the door.

“Since when are we married?” Eggsy asks, as soon as the door shuts behind them.

“Well,” Harry says calmly, “since Mrs. Braddock, I’ve found out, has been calling us _the Harts.”_

“I kind of like the sound of that, but after some chats with Roxy, I’ve been thinking of hyphenating. The Unwin-Harts.”

“Why does your surname come before mine?”

“Because it sounds better! The Hart-Unwins? Come on!”

Eggsy sees when Harry tries, and fails to hide his amusement. “We have plenty of time to discuss this later. But in the meantime, why don’t we have some of this pie?”


End file.
